


Rising

by MQAnon



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Claustrophobia, Comfort, Cuddling, Cute zombie boys doing cute zombie boy things, Dreams, M/M, Nightmares, and also shirtless, while in bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:18:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2181156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MQAnon/pseuds/MQAnon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his sleep, Kieren dreams of Rising. He dreams of darkness and satin on wood and pushing his way through the soil and grave-dirt to the air above.<br/>Sometimes, he never makes it out of the coffin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rising

In his sleep, Kieren dreams of Rising.

He opens his eyes to blackness, blinking a few times to clear away the clouded cobwebs that cling to the edges of his eyelashes. The dark is vast, endless, almost soothing, but Kieren knows he's awake, he's moving, he's _somewhere._ With slow, cautious hands he reaches out and up, and they only get a little distance before his palms bump into something. Whatever it is, it's covered in a soft, satin-ey fabric over a layer of wood, though he can barely tell it's there past the failing nerves in his fingertips. He reaches down. More of the same. He reaches behind his head, the sides, scrabbles at the roof above him _Oh God it's a coffin I'm in a coffin!_

The panic sets in then, and in that moment Kieren can _feel_ the weight of the earth pressing down on him, can hear his own breath coming quick and fast and frantic in his ears even though he somehow knows that breathing isn't something his needs to do anymore, that oxygen no longer has a home in his body, in his blackened blood. His hands scrabble frantically at the coffin lid above him, short nails slip-sliding over the fabric, and after a moment he starts to push up, fighting against the dirt piled who knows how high on the other side. Kieren knows that it's futile, knows that there's no way that he could actually break through or push the lid away, but he has to try, he _has_ to - it's that or rot below the ground forever.

His limbs don't falter, but the panic and fear is overwhelming to the point where he doesn't realise that by now his arms should be burning, should be getting weaker from repeatedly striking out at the lid of the coffin. It's not even _his_ fear, he notices dimly; it's rawer, more animalistic, a current sweeping him along with little care or regard for any actual thoughts he may have. He doesn't stop it. Can't stop it. Just keeps on pushing, shoving, hoping against hope that the lid will move or shift or do _anything_ , anything to free him and let him taste air that isn't stale with rot.

When it finally moves, Kieren's not expecting it to. The wood cracks under his hands, bowing inwards and letting in a small trickle of soil. It lands on his face and he shakes his head slightly to get it off, giving a small snarl of irritation as he does so _. Don't focus on it. Use this crack to your advantage_. He lifts his hands, and is just about to resume his furious clawing when the lid gives a groan, a creak, and his hands feel the crack above his head widen, feel the soft brush of soil rushing past them to fill the coffin.

_No_. His actions grow faster, more desperate even than before – the soil keeps coming as he digs, as he tries to push the lid off, stem the flow of dirt, do _anything_ to stop how the soil is starting to cling to his clothes, his legs, weighing him down on the satin-lined cushions. There's another crack, a flash of distant, almost invisible pain, and suddenly his arms are pinned through the scars by wooden spikes, held in place above him as the soil keeps coming and coming and coming.

Kieren opens his mouth to scream, and feels the grave-dirt pour down his throat to choke his lungs.

* * *

 

He wakes to a cry clawing its way up his neck, and he snaps his mouth shut and squeezes his eyes closed because he feels like if he let it out, he wouldn't be able to stop screaming. He's curled, shuddering, in a bed, but he still sees the endless dark behind his eyelids, feels the weight of the soil pressing down on him and pushing on his limbs. But worse than that, he can feel something pressed against his side, solid and heavy and covered with a fine layer of fabric and it's so much like the horrible confines of the coffin that Kieren has to roll away, press his face into a pillow to stop himself from sobbing.

There's the sound of rustling behind him, like the sound of soil on his clothes or against his skin and he flinches away at the first cautious touch to his shoulder.

"Kieren?" The word is soft, fuzzy with sleep, and the hand that rested briefly on his shoulder pulls away instantly the moment he moves. "Kieren, what is it? You alright?"

He manages to shake his head, even as he can feel the relief flooding his system – it's ok, it's not a coffin, it's Simon, it's _Simon,_ it's safe and it's ok. "Bad dream," he mutters eventually, and his throat feels sore and sharp like rocks were mixed in with the soil that he breathed.

Kieren hasn't had a dream this bad in ages; at the start, when he first came home, he would have the odd nightmare of the last person he attacked ( _killed_ ), but over time those appeared less and less frequently, until eventually his nights were entirely undisturbed by his brain digging up old memories. He would've thought that out of everywhere he could be, lying in bed in Amy's bungalow with Simon sleeping next to him would've been enough to ward off any nightmares and offer him a dreamless sleep.

Apparently not.

He knows that if his heart did still beat it would be hammering in his chest, and he can almost feel his ribs twinge in a phantom ache. In a strange way, that's what unsettles him most – the fact that even with the strains of a scream circling his throat his heart is perfectly still, stationary in his chest despite the frantic and unneeded breaths he pulls in and pushes out ( _Muscle memory_ Amy once called it and it is, it's exactly that).

The curtains pulled shut across the window let in the barest sliver of orange from the streetlamps outside, one that is a blessing to Kieren when he opens his eyes instead of the annoyance it normally is - because it's not darkness, it's not darkness so deep and so horrible that opening and closing your eyes does nothing to help. He lets his eyes rest on the light where it falls across the floor and paints the wall the colour of sodium flame, and he feels himself calming, just a little bit.

The light helps, but it's not enough.

He sits up, pulls off his pyjama top and throws it to the other side of the room in one quick move, for once uncaring about Simon seeing his scars – Kieren just _doesn't care_ right now, he just craves skin-on-skin contact because he knows it'll be something real, something he can anchor himself to past the cloying soil that clings to the inside of his skull. Lying down again, he scoots up to Simon's side, pressing himself as close as he can and resting his head against Simon's shoulder.

"Off," he mutters, plucking at Simon's t-shirt, "Off, now, Simon, _please_." Kieren can't stand even this small layer of separation between them, and the fact that even now it feels to him like the satin lining of his coffin doesn't help. He just wants it _gone_. "Please," he repeats, quieter than before, and he can distantly feel Simon press a kiss to the top of his head.

"Yeah. Yeah, ok. Just gimme a second…"

Simon pulls back and tugs off his t-shirt, letting it fall to the floor beside the bed as he cautiously wraps an arm around Kieren's shoulder. Kieren doesn't flinch away this time – he knows it's Simon, knows he's no longer in a coffin – and instead shuffles closer still to Simon's chest, one arm snaking around his waist. His pale skin paints a beautiful contrast against the night-darkened room, the lightness of it so wonderfully different to that horrible, choking darkness. Kieren gives a small sigh, skims his hand along Simon's back and relishes in the slight give of flesh under his fingertips. He needed this. He needed the feeling of just being held close and tight and lovingly, of having someone else take his weight and the crushing pressure of his thoughts with no questions, no judgement.

"Better?" he hears Simon ask.

"Much." A pause. "Thank you."

"It's ok."

For a moment, the room is near-silent, and all that can be heard are Kieren's calming breaths. Simon doesn't actually breathe anymore (and really, Kieren thinks absently, why would he?) but he still offers distraction in the steady way his hand rubs at Kieren's back and spine and shoulders, in the soft, half-heard endearments he whispers into Kieren's hair. Kieren lets the last tense line of his shoulders disappear under Simon's care and practically melts against him, pulling himself as close as possible.

It's perfect.

"Thank you," he whispers again, uncurling and stretching up to press a kiss to the corner of Simon's mouth. He can feel him smiling against his lips.

And for the rest of the night, his sleep is dreamless.


End file.
